


Jungle Slang

by PeachBriseadh



Category: Homestuck
Genre: A little, Alternate Universe - No Sburb Session, Anal Sex, Biting, Consensual fighting, Floor Sex, Hair Pulling, M/M, Modern AU, Rimming, Sexy Fight, Sort Of, The Full Sex, boxer jake, coital, did someone ask for more sexual tension, goth dirk, minor davekat, pretty god damn arousing, shameless flirting, so much tension, sweaty people, very descriptive
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-16
Updated: 2018-10-26
Packaged: 2019-05-07 22:48:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 21,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14681061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PeachBriseadh/pseuds/PeachBriseadh
Summary: Dirk Strider gets duped into doing Dave a favor, only to end up in the ring with a certain handsome Boxing Instructor.





	1. Step Inside

**Author's Note:**

> Here we go fellas time to get another fic rolling DirkJake style
> 
> Special thanks to Suz for editing this disaster of punctuation and putting up with all my questionable phrasing

Let it be known that Dirk Strider is a man that lends favors sparingly. Rarely do you engage in any activity that will not advance you as an individual, either in a fiscal or physical sense.

Nothing in your life has ever been accomplished without payment or sacrifice.

When your rancid asshole of a guardian failed to provide efficient care of you and your brother save for being battle ready, you took Dave under your wing. More often than not you found yourself trading your safety for his. Texas was not kind to you, nor was Bro. Dave was made of softer stuff than you and that meant protecting him twice over. Your body has been wrecked and torn and sewn back together a million times, but still you live on. Life after survival.

After Bro was finally accused and sentenced for his crimes against you and yours, your great aunt Rosalind took you in for the few remaining years of your adolescence. You needed time to heal and Dave needed a family. Rose and Roxy fell into your lives like a saving grace.

You would never call what you experienced a “childhood.” The verdant scar around your neck is a sharp reminder of how you couldn’t afford to allow yourself one. You were only ever a warrior–efficient and cold. The Lalondes have softened you somewhat over the years. And Dave. Not to mention the particular flavor of tricks Rosalind has taught all of you over time.

But favors. You don’t do favors. You don’t just do things because you’re asked nicely. Particularly not on negative fucking degree days in December when you could be warm in your workshop with hot metal under your palms and wires between your fingers.

But Dave doesn’t give a single hot steamy shit about that and asks you anyway, because you’re incapable of telling him no. So here you are, braving Woden’s frigid asshole for a simple errand.

Dave, your sweet darling of a younger brother, is halted hip deep in traffic somewhere while you’re here at an obscenely unsterile downtown gym full of creatures you’re fairly certain are very confused at your presence among their kind. You yourself are just that. Confused.

You were hoping to make this pick up quick, so you kept your coat and sweater on, and boy was it fucking hot. The open floor plan helped, but it still felt like you were swimming in the pure unfiltered body miasma of a room teaming with sweating strangers. Which, would you look at that? You fucking are.

You find Karkat immediately, one of the few trolls in the gym, and make your way over to him. Karkat is by no means a little guy, but he’s certainly not vertically gifted. At 6’2” you’re taller than most people you meet, but Karkat’s wild mane barely reaches your collar. You know Dave must love that.

Suffice to say Karkat is a bit of an anomaly, among other things. Like at this very moment you find him to be abashedly nervous. When he notices your presence, he rushes over to meet you. He squares up, built, but not uncomfortably swol like some of the specimens around you, and opens his cavernous mouth filled with words.

“WHY THE BLITHERING FUCK ARE YOU HERE?” You tell yourself he’s not angry with you personally, he’s just angry. In general.

“Dave asked me to pick you up. He’s stuck in traffic.”

“WELL FUCK.” You’re not sure what the issue is here, it’s just a ride home.

“Is there a problem?” you ask, genuinely concerned that Karkat is hiding something, which is unlike him considering how loud he habitually airs his thoughts.

He worries one pointed claw between his teeth and furrows his brow just a little further. It's actually pretty impressive how tightly he can manage to scrunch his face together. You hope it doesn’t get stuck that way, not that he’s doing anything to avoid it. For all you know, it could already be the case.

Karkat switches his weight from one leg to the other, then brings his arms down hard against his sides. “So some fucking how I managed to get into a fight with some asshole here, AGAIN, surprise surprise, and they sort of might be waiting for me in the free ring.” This is no surprise to you, but Karkat’s hesitation is unnerving in its unfamiliarity. You know he’s thrown down for less than an argument, so what’s the deal here.

“And?” You prompt, needing more evidence to support his behavior. The crux of the matter is that Karkat has been training to box to relieve stress, otherwise he wouldn’t even be here with all these strangers in the first place. When he’s not being instructed, however, he tends to make enemies of his classmates. Dave is usually around to steer him clear of situations exactly like this. They really do depend on one another.

Karkat goes from red to a god damn tomato in no time flat and you think you get it. “You’re afraid of this person.”

His head snaps up, eyes on fire. “I’M NOT FUCKING AFRAID, DIRK! I'M JUST–” He reins in his volume when he notices people looking over at the unconventional pair you make, and runs a heavy hand down his face. “I just know when I’m _out of my damn league_ alright??”

“Apparently not, if you agreed to this at all.” You don’t have time for this horseshit, and the smell and ambiance of this place is driving into your nerves. You want your sterile, quiet, solitary workshop. “We can just leave.” It’s not a question, and you make sure it can’t be misconstrued as one. It’s final.

Karkat is about to protest, because of course he is, when a voice rings out over the uncomfortable grunts and clanging of machinery to halt you. You find it funny that most of these people wear headphones to drown out the sounds they make while pumping iron, but you’re stuck listening to this obscene din. You can’t say you hate it.

You and Karkat look up at the same time and you notice him stiffen. This must be the guy.

Which is unfortunate.

Because he’s unfairly gorgeous. And half naked in a fitted tee and staggeringly short gym shorts. His hands are expertly wrapped in green fingerless gloves to match his tall name brand boxing shoes.

Huh. Maybe this place isn’t so bad.

“Now look here, I had a nagging feeling you were planning on jumping ship!” he says, in a rich voice that projects from some deep place in his chest, higher than yours, but loud and full. He’s maybe two inches shorter than you and dipped in a warm mahogany tone from head to toe, peppered with bruises and thin white scars.

His hair is black and thick, curling wildly in the front, moving in vertical waves up and away from his face. Which is just as stunning as the rest of him. Go figure.

Thick eyebrows over bottle green eyes and a perfect Cupid’s bow upper lip that sits against a full, curved bottom lip. You ponder the possibilities. And fuck if he couldn't pick you up and break you in half with those arms. Along with some other things he could do to you with those arms.

Focus.

Karkat opens his mouth in another attempt to protest, but the guy isn’t having it. “OH NO siree bob, don’t think you can wiggle your way out of this one, jack rabbit! This has been a long time coming, and bet your biscuits you know it!” You’re trying very hard not to laugh at this beautiful guy and his ridiculous lingo. Very hard.

Very very hard.

“LOOK FUCKWIT, I DON'T WANT TO FIGHT YOU! SO BACK THE HELL UP,” Karkat says, as he braces himself for a fight he doesn’t want, but will likely be the cause of.

The angry beautiful man is looking very unhappy, and Karkat is trying his best to look both bigger and nonthreatening simultaneously. Time to break this up.

You step up from beside Karkat to put yourself between the two of them. The man in question seems to have only just realized you were even there, taking a step back in obvious surprise at you appearing between them out of the void. You take a second to not be offended.

“I don’t know what happened here, but I’m sure it’s not worth all this.” He doesn’t look swayed. He does look interested in your collar bones however, since his wild emerald eyes keep making the leap from your shades to the small peaks above your shirt collar. That’s way too near to the jagged scar around your neck and nope. “There’s no need for a fight,” you say, bringing his eyes back up to your face. He seems to not want to look directly at your shades. Good.

“I’m sure as sunshine there is!” he says. “Your little friend here has been downright brutish to nearly every Tom, Dick, or Harry in this establishment, and I dare say a comeuppance is well overdue.” Oh, you think, of course. Karkat’s mouth.

You look at Karkat and he looks away, embarrassed in knowing that he got himself into this and you're going to be the poor sap that bails him out. Fine. You know there’s a very slim chance of him apologizing and you’d like to fix this situation without him getting banned from the premises.

“We can handle this without a brawl,” you tell the stranger, voice firm and level. “He obviously doesn’t want to fistfight you.” You really would like to go home.

“A cowards way out,” he half spits, “If you’re not going to stand up for a fight, then don’t go about picking them.” He looks at you again. “You’ve got nothing to do with this.” Woah there, that’s a nasty tone. You didn’t have a damn thing to do with this, but you might now.

“Hey,” you warn, and yeah that gets his eyes on your face and off Karkat’s, “I think that’s enough.”

“I think,” he mocks, “You ought to let him fight his own battles. Unless you’re planning on going toe to toe in his stead, which seems hardly the case.”  What.

“Excuse me?” Your face is stone still.

“You’re barely a match for me, look at you. A right lovely picture you make, but even our small friend here has more mass than you, I’m afraid.” He gestures at Karkat who is busy staring open mouthed at this fucking idiot who thinks you of all people could be bested in a fight. A part of you really needs an excuse to wreck him, now. The other part still just wants to go home. And a third, smaller part really likes the idea of his hands on you. You smash it down.

He shakes his head in disapproval before you can open your mouth to verbally maim him and it stings your ego. “Please don’t come back if all you’re going to do is rouse anger and not stand up to face it.” You know Karkat is bad, but that’s harsh. It took weeks for him to get comfortable here. You know, because Dave wouldn’t shut up about it.

“Well, if it’s a fight you need to settle this, I’m sure I can satisfy you.” One long step forward brings you toe to toe with him. You’re not about to let a chance to prove this beautiful lunatic wrong slip through your fingers.

He looks you in the eyes, then, and holy shit if there isn’t something wild and hungry living in there. You’re thankful for the dark, heavy lenses shielding you from the full weight of his focus.

He considers your offer, then a sly grin spreads across his face and you think you may have just gotten played into fighting this guy. That thought pushes you over the edge, and yeah, now you’re pretty fucking angry. Maybe slightly thrilled.

“Alrighty then,” he bounces twice on the balls of his feet, “If you’re sure there, sweetheart. I’d hate to hurt such a pretty thing.” He winks at you, all cocky and prodding and your hands curl into tight fists in your coat pockets.

Your voice rumbles in your chest in a low growl, “I’m sure.”

He grins wide, cheeks dimpling and eyes squinting, and turns to gesture towards the door like a real showman. He’s stupid handsome and practically oozing charm and all you want is to have him on his back and pinned to the ground under you.

You follow him into a room separated form the main gym by a large set of double doors. You definitely don’t watch the way the muscles in his back slide as he opens the door, just like you definitely didn't’ watch his ass the whole walk over. Karkat hisses next to you, “Dirk, you don’t have to do this. We can just fucking leave.” He’s giving you an out, same as you did for him, but you’ve got a point to make. You keep walking past the Handsome Man holding the door open for the two of you, ever chivalrous in the face of his inevitable ass kicking.

“Fuck me,” falls out of Karkats mouth like tumbled gravel, “Dirk he’s an instructor, it’s not gonna be a walk in the fucking park here.” You give him a leveling glare and he sighs. “Christ, just don't get us both banned. Or kill him.”

Your match climbs up onto the ring without any preamble and turns to face you. “Prepped as punch and ready as I’ll ever be, chum.” He’s goading you into rushing with his goofy lingo you do not in any way find endearing.

You take your shades off and hold his gaze. You can see the minute shift in his eyes when he focuses in on the unusual orange hue he finds there. He lets out a low whistle. “Please, take your time.”

So you do. You use it efficiently, like you always have.

You shrug the jacket off your shoulders, watching him watch you. The loose sweater lifts easily over your head, and he doesn’t miss a moment of your disrobing down to just your black quarter length and jeans. Your fingers twitch around a phantom hilt. You don’t usually fight without a sword. Won’t need it for this, at any rate.

He’s grinning as he takes in every detail of you from head to toe, building his catalogue as you build yours. You’re not sure he’s naive enough to think his larger build makes him a sure-win for this fight, or if maybe he genuinely likes the shape of you and is pleased with his accomplishment of rallying you into harm's way. Either way you’re planning to shove that grin right down his throat.

“First to get pinned loses. When I win, Karkat stays,” you say, giving him a chance to set any ground rules. There’s no pleasantry in your voice, only cool conviction. Your rising pulse says otherwise.

“All’s fair,” he says, “No holds barred.” His eyes trace the lithe muscle of your legs as you climb into the ring. The black material probably makes you look even less formidable in size. That’s fine. Advantageous, even.

“Fine with me.” You square up, go into your stance, and drop your chin.

He smiles and you wish he would fucking stop because it’s doing some lurid shit to your insides.

“Smashing, let’s get to it.” And with that, he swings like lightning.


	2. Let Lightning be the Vein

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dirk and Jake finally have a little tussle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another big thank you to Suz for being a great editor and leaving me funny little notes

A staggering twenty minutes later and your fight with Handsome Stranger has swerved violently out of your control. 

The small box of a ring is static charged. There’s a heady electric swarm in the air that swirls and coils around you wherever your bodies make contact, pushing and pulling in heavy rhythm with your movements. It pounds in your eardrums and brings pin pricks of sweat to your arms and forehead. It’s like hand to hand combat in a lush, drunken storm cloud. 

It’s maddening. You don’t think you’ve ever had a fight that feels this... provocative, particularly not with a complete stranger. Or maybe you’re just not used to fights lasting this long. You’ve usually won by now, but he has you matched at every turn. The two of you are grid-locked into focusing solely on one another, from the smallest twitch of intent to the most damaging follow through. You’re memorizing his entire body through glances—the way he moves, his speed, his sounds. But you’re not making it easy, forcing him to do the same. He’s starving for every piece of you he can bite into. Any weakness he can attack and exploit.

One wrong move and he’ll take you.

He doesn’t pull any punches, either. For all his talk about not wanting to hurt a pretty thing like you, he’s doing a damn fine job of it. Your hits slam full force into one another like crashing waves against cliff sides. His knuckles shake you like thunder tearing through your frame. You’re not at all sure where Karkat is, hell, at this point you’re not sure where  _ you _ are. The world is broken down into the space between your bodies and the delicious havoc you find there. 

Neither of you are out for a win now, it’s not that simple anymore. Your little squabble form earlier is lost somewhere, forgotten in all the chaos. Yeah, you’re out for domination, to win a prize. He wants a victory over you bad enough to play dirty for it, and you can’t say you're disappointed. If he wants this to get filthy, you’ll gladly rise to meet him. 

He’s realized your left hand is dominant, if only by a small margin, and targets your right. He knows your stamina is higher, so he’s decided to speed things up, sticking close. He’s grappling and contorting you at every opportunity, and wrestling was never your forte. He advances like an urgent, heavy fog, needing to fill the empty air between your bodies as fast as possible. He works hard to coax you into a defensive stance and still manages to look like he’s playing with you. You’re sliding into the heat of his dance, his lead.

He’s making a lot of the decisions here and it's about damn time you put a stop to it. 

When he dips in for another round, you let him in. He throws a punch at your side and you catch his wrist, pulling him forward with your weight combined with his own momentum. You slam your shoulder into the very center of him, stance firm to the ground. He coughs out a satisfying  _ OOF _ as the air is forced from his lungs, but he still manages to turn it to his advantage.

He grabs the shoulder closest to him as he catches his breath, surging forward on strong legs to clutch tight onto your hip opposite his other hand, effectively twirling you on your feet. His fingers dig in hard, branding hot marks that send ripples of heat across your skin and down your spine. Christ, you need to get a grip on your goddamn mind. In a show of pure force, he drags you bodily against him, pinning your back to his chest with your arm twisted painfully into the arch of your spine. 

You hit his chest hard enough to rock the air out of your lungs, hissing through clenched teeth. Your head whips back over the lean muscle between his right shoulder and neck, and he turns his face just enough to watch your expression twist. He’s grinning, the hand at your shoulder slides to the center of your chest and fuck, if your mouths aren’t unfairly close for a hot instant. He’s flush against you from shoulder to thigh like an interlocking gear. The hand at your hip is brazen and strong, two hot fingers dipping fearlessly under the waist of your jeans. You’re pretty sure that there’s a boner in the making pressed tight against your ass. 

You breath him in, filling your lungs with too warm cypress and sweat, and drop your hand over his on your hip. You slide against him for one delicious moment of friction, pressing back and up with your legs, and slam the back of your skull into his face. 

He’s dazed long enough for you to make your escape, side stepping out of his reach. He blinks his eyes and you roll your shoulder. Your back is covered in the phantom sensation of his body heat, a blazing stamp pressed against you, and it lights up the smoldering fire in your belly. You put a tentative hand over your hip where his vice-like grip bit into skin. That’s going to be a nasty five digit affair in the morning. Your shoulder didn’t fare any better. 

His nose doesn’t look particularly broken. He grins again, that perfect mouth sitting wicked across his handsome face. There’s blood coming from his nose and swimming between his teeth. He turns his head to one side and spits onto the ground without breaking eye contact. He definitely looks interested in the fact you’ve drawn blood from him, reverent even. His shoulders and chest rise and fall in glorious tempo to your own pounding heartbeat. You lick your lips, a useless struggle against the ragged breaths you pull into your overworked lungs.

You each take a much needed moment to consider one another, and boy are you doing some fairly erotic considering. Your calamitous thoughts send up screaming flares that spell  _ DANGER _ and  _ WANT _ behind your eyes in blinding letters. He rolls his head from one shoulder to the other and flexes his hands. Watching him, ready and willing to strike you down, spills soupy arousal hot through your core, sweet as boiling sugar. You’re trying hard not to show him how much you’re enjoying this, how excited you are. It’s terrible, agonizing fun, caught under the heat of his gaze—electric green and so, so hungry. Like walking on a razor's edge.

“Say,” he says, and it thankfully pulls you from the sticky realm of your own thoughts, “What’s your name? If I may be so inclined to know.” His voice is strained in a delightful way, working hard to keep his lungs pumping while he makes words with his tempting, grinning mouth. He’s just as caught up and lost in this balmy electrical storm as you are, the fight from earlier still light years away from his mind.

“Doesn’t matter.” You’re about to end this fight, doubting if your body or your libido can stand much more of his onslaught. His little flirtatious query has given you just enough time to get a firm handle on your mind, and it’s time to stop. Like reaching your alcohol limit before you get trashed, drunk on the dewey violence he hands you. At this rate you’ll be needing a cold shower, or an entirely different style of beating. Well, not entirely.

His smile widens impossibly at your response, crooked and fun, and he wipes more blood away with his thumb. Jesus fucking Christ his hands are huge, no wonder he punches like a mule. There’s a lot of ideas you could entertain about those hands on specific places on your anatomy. Like your hip just now. The heat in your groin rises and squirms. Now is not the time. Or, rather, now is exactly the time. 

Playing punch and grab like this could get him a victory, so you pull your best card without a sword in your hands. You faint a rush at him, and he switches into defense position on instinct. You take your opportunity, playing the scene step by step in your head, all outcomes and variables considered and calculated for one final blitz attack. 

A flashstep, and you’re gone. His eyes go wide and his whole body tenses. Perfect.

You ghost your lips on the shell of his ear, spread one hand wide between his shoulder blades, grip his wrist, and force him to the floor with a sweep of your leg and the power of your arms. He slams onto the mat with his head turned to the side and you riding his fall. Hopefully his cheek bruises from impact. 

You straddle his ass and manage to catch his other wrist before he can get it under his body for leverage. The two of you steal a moment in sync, both panting hard and beaten all to hell. You draw in a deep breath through your nose and breath fire out of your lungs. That lurid feeling is back, sticky and hot,  dancing between your hips like wet snakes. It sends sparks of heat jumping slowly up your spine. You press further on his arms.

He grunts low in his chest and his eyes find yours, one arm pinned to his back while you hold the other down above his head. “Well,” he pants out, “that was a damn filthy trick.” His body rocks gently between your thighs with every powerful exhale. 

You huff out a small laugh. Your entire body leans into him, your legs widening a fraction around his hips to allow more contact, knees dragging momentarily on the mat floor. Every muscle sings with excess adrenaline, buzzing heat that amplifies your tactile senses. He’s a magnetic force, a lighting rod drawing you down to the ground in a flash of raw natural attraction. You close your eyes and try to focus, to calm down. Your dick is unfairly interested in the heat beneath you, flush against his ass. Probably not smart to pop a semi during a fight like this, but the dude did instigate the entire erotic mess. Besides, it’s your win.

To the victor, as they say.

It’s difficult to pull yourself down from the high, drowning in the punch drunk quality of being this close to him, pinning him. Time seems to stop and race by all at once, his eyes burning holes into you from the ground. He stares you down from his position on the floor like a captured wild animal that’s sure to go for blood at the slightest hesitation from its bonds, and you can’t help but entertain the idea of giving a fraction less. Would he use the opportunity to take you down? You’re fucking positive he would. You lick your bottom lip and his eyes snap to it, watching the wet muscle glide across. You slowly press down further with a smooth grind of your hips. A muscle in his shoulder jumps.

An exaggerated cough pulls you out of the hungry sex deprived part of your mind you must have wandered into and your head snaps up. You release his arms and lean back, putting your weight on his ass and your knees. Handsome Dude looks chuffed that A) he got his shit wrecked and B) you’re getting off of him. You ignore the second part as your brain just fueling your own fantasies. How long have you been sitting on him like this?

You assume it to be Karkat, but the world is not that kind, and there stands Dave. He knows exactly what you were probably working up to and has this look on his face that clearly warns,  _ you better fucking control yourself _ . 

You stand up and step the fuck back. The handsome stranger at your feet rolls over and sits up, watching you from his well deserved spot on the floor. He rolls his shoulder, the one you were  twisting painfully behind him, and leans back on his hands to look up at you. There’s still blood on his upper lip and his legs are open and bent at the knee, one falling lazily to the side. Even beaten and panting like this, he looks like he’s ready to devour you. 

Okay, enough of that.

You run your hands through your hair and hold eye contact, both of you still fighting to tame your uneven breaths. 

“Dirk Strider.” You finally answer him, and make your way out of the ring, leaving him to find his own way off the ground. You step as gracefully as you can through the ropes, trying not to disturb any of your new bruises. You're thankful as fuck your fitted jeans hide any chance of your interested member getting unwanted attention. 

“Dirk,” he says, testing your name on his lips. You turn around because you’re already hooked, aren’t you. “I like it, a strong name,” he laughs out in a low, giddy tone.

He’s up, leaning too casually on the ropes, arms crossed in front of him. Bruises are rising on his arms and thighs. Blood blooms red from a small cut on his cheek where it met the ground. He tilts his head to one side and wipes away the blood under his nose with his arm, that same charming smile plastered to his face. “Jake English. It’s been a down right grand pleasure to have you, Dirk Strider. Do come back and see me,” His voice drips down your senses like scalding honey and pools in your gut, too fucking hot. You put your shades on without dropping eye contact. You might have to take him up on that invitation. Not that you’ll say that.

You walk out of the room without responding, Dave at your side. Karkat is waiting by the exit door, seemingly having had enough of your… uh. Spectacle.

Dave looks at your flushed face and hands you your coat and sweater that you really don’t need.

“Did you just fucking pound that guy in skinny jeans?” 

Poor choice of words.

You really need a goddamn shower.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was the reason I wanted to write this fic and it's the shortest one. The next two are roughly twice this length /sweats


	3. Pressure Hold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jake visits Dirk without an actual invitation and Dirk’s sort of not happy about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My dearest editor Suz deserves a lot of credit for these since I am a master disaster when it comes to any sort of punctuation. Also I use a lot of weird words. But like every suggestion ends up with an entire new paragraph whish is nice. THANKS SUZ

The next time you meet one Jake English, it’s in the last place you would have expected. 

Your home.

Apparently, he approached Karkat shortly after his and your “heated round of fisticuffs” to apologize for being “right daft and profoundly uncivilized.” Turns out the dude is an advanced instructor there and a few other places around the area. You’re not one hundred percent sure the entire _situation_ wasn’t staged to get you in the ring with Jake, considering Karkat has been taking classes there for more than a few weeks. How had he and Jake not gone up against one another before then? It was too easy. Too _Movie Magic_ , standing up for your down and out friend. Falling for _The_ _Bad Guy_. Karkat would eat that shit up, you’re sure.

No, you don’t believe that after all those weeks, Karkat only just came across the powerhouse that is Jake English and immediately instigated a fight. Regardless, Jake fucking English is currently standing in your nondescript lobby wearing a dubious, disarming grin. He’s got a pair of dark framed glasses on and more clothes than before, but he’s unmistakable.

The building you chose for your business is modest, but well kept. The lobby has no secretary desk, signs designating entry, or even any indication of what the place is actually for. The singular purpose of this hollow room is for you to easily intercept visitors. You only ever entertain clients for the short amount of time it takes them to pick up their shit; all other discussion is done online. The building serves as your home base. Emphasis on home. You do keep a number of pleasant flowering plants around, remnants of your time with Rosalind, all of which are in this front room.

Every aspect of your life and business is managed and maintained solely by your hands inside the Timaeus Testified walls. Hal monitors your fiberoptic stronghold while you stand guard at its gates, going as far as to mount two very much not decorative katanas on the lobby wall. So the room isn’t by definition, empty. Though, at the moment, you’re standing in the doorway that leads into the building proper wearing a black tank top and coveralls, painted in grease and pleasantly singed, wishing that it was. 

You’ve been working all morning and had  _ intended _ to work for roughly the next two days with minimal breaks. You sure as shit did not plan for visitors today, least of all this one. Did you mention that you also fucking live here? Whoever gave him the door code is dead to you.

He seems downright pleased to have caught you covered in your work filth and strides right over to where you’re standing. You brace yourself–straightening your back and dropping your chin. He stops when he notices you go tense, looking startled for a moment, then a wary smile turns up the corners of his mouth. That residual heat from your brawl stirs lazily in your core. You try to stamp it down. He clears his throat.

“Dirk Strider, my my–you truly are the real McCoy aren’t you, pretty?” He says, hands fisted on his hips. Did he just pet name you right off the bat? You remember him calling you... that, during your fight as well. Or rather, right as he played your ass straight into his ring. Not that that ended in his favor. Or, you guess, maybe it did, inevitably. 

“I don’t recall telling you where I work, and even less so do I recall inviting you to it.” You're cautious of him, familiar feelings resurfacing of having a wild animal just barely under your control. He pouts, and it’s infuriatingly endearing on his face. 

“Well, I–" he starts and stutters just for a moment, then continues bravely, “I suppose I was so rallied by your show of skill that I had to come around and seek you out, Strider, by hook or crook it would seem. I do apologize if I’m interrupting.” 

Oh. 

“Oh,” you say. “Look, English.” He grins a little at you remembering his name, which does not make your heartbeat hiccup. “You don’t even know me, and the last time we spoke I had your ass pinned to the floor.” 

“No no no, the last we spoke,  _ mister Strider _ , I was extending a gentlemanly hand for you to visit again, though you obviously chose to ignore that friendly endeavour.” He crosses his arms over his chest and widens his stance. You guess two weeks might be a long time to blatantly ignore an invitation. Who knows.

His dark olive coat seams to be having a hard time containing both him and the obnoxious button down sweater combo he’s sporting. And shorts. Mid thigh khaki shorts that hug his legs. Where the fresh fuck did this man even come from. They don’t make men like this around these parts. 

“So you just show up here unannounced and hope I’m free to entertain you?” you ask cautiously, genuinely interested in an answer. His lack of concern is a little annoying, even if he is unreasonably attractive. You don’t want him to think he can repeat this little attempt on your attention. He’s taking up a lot of your time, here. 

He has the decency to look a little sheepish, but you suspect it’s only skin deep. There’s a wolf in there, you've seen it once already. “Well,” he says,”I’d be a buffoon to just allow you to squirrel yourself away here in your bunker, particularly after just our first round. It was a smidgen, uh...” he searches for the right word, tapping three fingers in a rhythm on his chin, “Unconventional.” 

You don’t miss the subtle implication that you had a  _ first  _ round, leaving the idea open for  _ future  _ rounds. It’s also nice to know you weren’t the only one feeling a little too enthusiastic about the fight. But. “You’re already a 'buffoon' for wanting to find me again at all. Like I was saying, you shouldn’t have come here, Jake.”

He’s a little miffed you’re putting up such a struggle, maybe he thought you would be overjoyed at his extension of friendship; that you’d be easy. You’re indeed fucking not. 

“Alright listen here, Strider, I–" is all he gets out before the very loud clashing of metal on metal jackknifes through the quiet room. You curse under your breath, grabbing a sword from the wall and pointing a finger to the floor. “Stay here.” 

You flashstep down the hall to the second large workspace without waiting for a response. The metal door slides open easily and sure enough, Sawtooth has the prototype Brobot pinned to the wall. You hadn’t deactivated him when you left the room in your hurry to intercept Jake. You project your voice over the screeching metal as Brobot tries to sever Sawtooths arm from around his neck. “Sawtooth, stand down.” You don’t bother trying the voice command on the Brobot, he’s nowhere near that level of completion. 

Sawtooth launches back and affixes himself like a statue against the far wall. He would destroy the smaller bot too easily and you’ve only just started to make headway on the damn thing. Brobot switches his attention to you, now that Sawtooth isn’t going to give him the fight he’s craving, making a mad dash straight for your body. You meet him halfway and catch his swinging arm with your blade. He was designed to fight, and fight he does.

The blade slices through Brobot's steel cleanly enough, and you ponder having to fix it later. Fortunately, cleaner cuts are easier to mend. Unfortunately, you know you’re going to have a metric shitload of cuts. As it turns out, Brobot is in one hell of a mood and starts swinging blindly and with little regard to what he’s hitting. You turn the blade and point it to his core, hoping to grant him a quick death this time around, provided you can catch an opening. Though the metal of his arms bounces off the blade of your sword for the majority of your hits, the tip is sharp and sure. 

You need to find an opening between dodging his wild haymakers and keeping him from ripping your head off. If you weren’t fighting for your general well being at present, you would take a moment to feel pride in how well he’s doing, but you are, so you need to focus. The feral bot brings up one leg in a flash of steel, and drags it straight down with the force of a falling meteor. Centimeters separate you and his attack, the force of his heel shattering a broken divot into the cement floor. You thank fuck you haven’t fully synchronized the bots fighting style with your own yet, and if this is any demonstration, you may never. There’s a split second he’s left wide open and you take advantage, severing one of his arms from just below the elbow while his body finds equilibrium again. Brobot doesn't even flinch. You jump back out of reach of his good arm as he surges forward, kicking up chunks of loose cement like fallen snow. 

He’s faster than you thought.

A lot faster. As he flies at you like the world’s orneriest canon ball, you turn your blade and point the tip directly towards his center. He swipes at your chest, missing by inches as you flashstep backwards out of his reach. The clever fuck tracks you with his shades, and meets you across the room. You’re sure you didn’t program him to do that. Troubling. He tries to backhand the sword away, swinging wide, but his urgent chase only managed to put him in the exact position for you to duck low and send your blade straight into his core. Except that as you step into the thrust, the shitty robot falls sideways and the blade lodges crookedly into his chassis. “Fuck.”

Before you even have a chance to drop the hilt, Brobot pushes himself down the blade. He reaches towards you, fingers outstretched towards your throat. A red hot image of Bro on the roof in Texas flashes in front of your eyes, overlaying your vision in perfect sync with the steel replica. Fear lurches through your body, burning against your senses like dry ice on bare skin. You’re frozen. This is what you made him for, you coward.

In one instant Bro– no,  _ Brobot _ , is about to strangle the life out of you, and the next there’s a large tan hand spread wide across its face, slamming it straight back and into the floor with a wild crack of steel meeting cement. You blink and Bro is gone. Jake is here.

Brobot wasn’t designed for combat concerning more than one opponent, thankfully. You seize the opportunity to let the bot fall smoothly off the blade, then follow up with your intended jab into the chassis, straight into his core cells, silencing the feral thing. Jake kneels on his haunches next to Brobot's head and whistles. The low note bounces off the walls and reverberates into the surrounding steel. You can see Sawtooth quirk his head to the side out of the corner of your eye.  _ Stranger? _ he says without words. You shake off the residual fear of your nightmare vision, and step over the bot. You’re clearly not ready for a real fight with him.

“Bloody fucking hell Dirk, that was right terrifying!” Jake takes in the sight of you, standing straight-backed with a foot on either side of the downed bot. You pull the blade out of the floor and look around for the scabbard you blindly tossed somewhere in your rush to silence Brobot. You wonder how much Jake saw, the fight couldn’t have lasted more than a few minutes. Did he only step in because you froze up like a fucking coward? You breath in deep through your nose, stretching your diaphragm. A vertebrae pops. 

With one severed arm and multiple contusions, not to mention the hit to his core, Brobot’s repair time goes from three days to three months in a span of three minutes. Fantastic. There are probably one hundred different ways you could have handled that situation, and you still managed to execute the one that would inevitably screw you over the most. You glance down at Jake who looks up at you like you hung the stars in the sky, eyes wide and lips slightly parted. He watches you for a tense moment, sword in hand, grease filthy and hair wild, and sprouts up so fast you almost stumble back. You’re thankful you didn’t forgo your shades for the welding mask on your workbench. You blink at him a few times through dark lenses.

“Dirk Strider, I would very much like to lay one on you right now,” he says, like it’s no big deal. Like he’s known you forever and you’ve just done something terribly sweet. Like he even knows anything about you other than your name.  _ Like you’re dating _ . Though, you suppose you’ve done more with people who have known less about you. “I told you to stay outside,” you answer, stepping away to find that damn sheath. What the flying fuck, English? 

“Okay, maybe that was a tad forward of me. My apologies. I uh–" he’s apologising and stumbling over his words, and you’re just not going to look at him. He’s probably making a very cute, nervous face and gesturing with those big hands. Probably. Where’s that damned scabbard. “I don’t want you assuming I’m just some wildly hormonal cad looking for a quick rub. Bullocks, I’m making a fine old blatherskite of myself, aren't I?” There are a lot of things you really don’t understand about that sentence, but you spot the scabbard under your workbench and stride over to it. When you rise from the floor he’s right in your space, looking far too earnest. 

“Don’t sneak up on me with a sword in my hands unless you’re looking for trouble.” You sheath the sword in one smooth motion and turn to set it down on the tabletop amongst the mess of coiled wire and long, drawn out plans. He chuckles warmly, like you’re friends or something. 

“Well I guess you could say I am, or was, rather, since I did manage to scope you out.” He winks, then turns to face the wall, putting you both shoulder to shoulder in front of the steel table. He’s taller than you thought. And now he’s looking at you, face turned to the side to stare holes into yours. Say something.

You make a small noise of affirmation, then turn fully to face him, leaning your waist against the table. “So I’m trouble, then. What did you honestly expect out of coming here?” 

“Well certainly not that! This place is astounding, Dirk, and I’ve only just seen this one friggin’ room! You’re truly a marvel of this world, pet.” He turns his body to match your stance, gesturing enthusiastically as he talks around a wide smile. “What is it you even do here with all these new age fantasy machines, fighting for your life notwithstanding?” He chuckles at the end, an excited curiosity beaming through. You watch his hands as he talks, distractedly trying to look at them and his face simultaneously. They really are nice. His hands, you mean. 

“A lot. I receive commissions to build just about anything any regular person can’t handle. This one.. Not as much. Besides, you’re just answering my questions with more questions. What do you want?” You take off your work gloves and toss them on the table as well, crossing your arms. He crosses his, mimicking your stance, complete with a tired look. What a goofball. 

“If I’m to be honest,” he says with a crooked little grin, “I’d say I was sure as satin you wouldn’t return to my gym, so here I came.” He raises his chin a little, demanding eye contact. You automatically drop your eyes down to his mouth. He’s got a cute little gap right there in front. “You’re a hard man to figure, Dirk, but I wager I can can make it worth your while.” 

“Depends on what you mean by 'it', Jake. I’ve got ‘new age fantasy machines’ to craft, I’m a busy dude.” 

He doesn’t touch you, but leans in from his waist, putting his face to the left of yours, reminiscent of his hold on you two weeks ago. The heat of his breath curls over your cheek and ear like an accusation. “I’m sure you are,” he says, grinning, “What I mean, Strider, is possibly picking up where we left off. Getting to know one another.” He leans back out of your space, and you brace yourself against following him, chasing his heat. The man is like a magnet, pulling you along. 

“Are you propositioning me for sex or a fight?” Because you’re god fucking honestly not sure.

He laughs, a full bright sound that bounces off the walls and back into your brain like warm lamplight. He’s all around you and it sparks your nerves right down to your toes. “Golly Dirk, beggars can’t be choosers, as they say.”

“Doesn’t sound like begging to me.” Stop it, flirting is not going to get him out of your hair. Though it could, ideally, get his hands into it. He grins again, but it’s all teeth and it sends a spike of heat barreling down your spine and pooling between your hips. You don’t know how he flips that fucking switch from fun to hunger, but it’s the sexiest damn thing you’ve ever seen. 

This time, he does touch you. He steps forward, closing the space between the two of you. He’s like magma this close, the heat of him teetering on too much and not enough after handling cool steel for hours. He takes your forearms, one in each large hand, and you let him uncross them. He runs a calloused thumb over the soft underside of your right wrist, smearing a spot of grease across your skin. The wet slide of his skin against yours sends a tingling shiver up your arm. The other hand he lifts to his lips, placing a soft kiss against your bent fingers. “Please, Dirk,” he whispers, lips featherlight against your skin, eyes bright beneath dark lashes. “Won’t you oblige me?”

Okay, so that answers the sex or fighting question. Maybe. Alright. You swallow hard and hope he doesn’t feel your pulse double under his thumb.

He lets you take your hands back and you step around him towards the door. His entire body swings around to watch you, a confused, hurt look on his face. You stand in the door, one hand on the steel frame, and turn your head to face him. “Are you planning on staying in here with him,” you say, jabbing a thumb at Sawtooth, “Or coming with me. Your choice.” You shrug your shoulders and step into the hallway, but not without missing the smile that brightens up Jake’s face.

You start down the hall to your personal rooms, directly above you, one flight up. Jake jogs to your side, grinning like the fool you think he is. “So Strider,” he beams, “You find me agreeable then?” He waggles his eyebrows a few times. You roll your eyes.

“Fishing for compliments there, English? That’s mighty ungentlemanly.” He chuckles. 

“Not at all, rather, I’d say I’m far below your roster. Sikes alive, Dirk, we’re barely playing the same game!” No, you’re pretty damn sure you’re both playing the  _ exact _ same game.

“Sports were never really my thing dude, besides,” you say, starting up the stairs at the end of the hall. “Wouldn’t sell yourself short. I’ve already let you touch me once.” He can’t walk beside you on the stairs, so he follows you up, giving you some distance. You hear him snort loudly behind you and allow yourself a small grin.

“Let me, ah? That’s terribly _ gracious _ of you, Strider.” 

“Don’t get used to it.” The second floor is very similar to the first, a long open hallway with heavy sliding doors that open into large open rooms. You've taken two smaller offices and remodeled them into livable spaces, one a bedroom, and one a sort of zen dojo mashup to meditate and practice in. There’s also a smaller workshop up here for your artistic needs and computers. Not to mention a spacious bathroom you’ve had redesigned four times to suit your taste. 

Jake’s still shaking his head and laughing quietly when you lead him into the practice room, toeing off your shoes and socks at the door. You roll your socks up and put them in your ratty sneakers. Jake takes the hint and does the same, placing his worn boots on the mat next to your shitty high tops. You hate how nice they look sitting close to one another, cozied up on the doormat. 

The practice room is completely Japanese oriented, from the forgiving tatami floor to the small shrine straight across from the entrance. You are nothing if not dedicated. You’ve even managed to collect a complete set of samurai armor, erected in a shrine at the far end of the room, along with your two prized katanas. The ones you pilfered from Houston on the day of Bro’s arrest. Incense burns in small inlets on the walls and a large round window faces out to the sea, miles away. 

Jake walks into the center of the room and turns slowly, taking in the relaxed atmosphere, warm citrus honey smoke, the waning grey winter sky. This is where you would’ve ended up later anyway, to stretch and decompress.

“Dirk,” he starts, turning towards you at the head of the room, a look of pure affectionate understanding on his face, “You’re a huge nerd.” 

You almost choke out loud. 

“Thanks,” you deadpan, walking back over to him in the center of the room. He’s got his hands on his hips and a goofy smile on his handsome face. 

“It’s really swell in here, smells mind bogglingly sweet.” He closes his eyes and inhales deep, his chest rising and falling with it. You offer him your hand. 

“Here, I can take your coat.” 

Jake slaps his palm onto yours in a firm grip. “That’d be just peachy, Dirk,” he says, just holding it. Not taking off his coat. Just.

Holding your hand.

“Jake.”

“OH.” He lets you go and quickly removes his coat, handing it over. You roll your eyes and move to hang it on the hook set in the wall by the door. When you look over your shoulder, Jake’s following you, his sweater halfway over his head. He stops, and makes a little jerky motion. The sweater seems to be giving him some sort of grief.

“Uh,” he says, embarrassed. “I’m afraid I may be in a bit of a sticky pickle here.” His voice is muffled by his sweater, arms stuck waving stupidly above his head. You take a moment to commit this to memory before you step forward and consider helping him. 

“Just stand still,” you tell him, a little more stern than you’d intended, but he stills nonetheless. You trace the tips of your fingers up from the hem of his pants to the bottom of his lifted sweater, following the dark line of his suspenders to just above his collar bones. The featherlight friction of your fingertips awards you one quality sharp inhale. Not quite a gasp, but you’ll take it. 

Sliding your fingers against his chest and neck, under the sweater and over the button up, you detach a loose loop of material hooked on the button right under Jake’s chin. “There. Now you can remove it.” He whips the sweater off the rest of the way, expecting to see you there, but you're gone, flahstepping back to the center of the room. 

His eyes search until he finds you, and he grins. “That’s one doozy of a spectacular trick you’ve got there,” he says, hanging his sweater with his coat. He takes off his glasses and slides them into a coat pocket.

He walks back over to you, opening the top few buttons of his shirt easily with one hand, low enough for you to see the dips of his clavicle. Not an undershirt for miles. “It’s not a trick, it’s a technique,” you tell him. 

“Pot and kettle, Dirk,” he says, batting away your correction with one hand. He stands before you now, his shoulders squared with yours, hands on his hips again. He looks ready for whatever you’ve got in store, even though  _ he’s  _ the real instigator here.

“You look like you’re expecting something there, English.” You walk the floor, making a slow circle around him. “How about this time you give me a straight answer.” He makes a show of not watching you, instead choosing to unbutton his cuffs and roll up his sleeves. He’s got dark hair on his arms and a couple bruises. You know it’s been too long for them to be from you, but one can imagine. On your next round, you stop behind him and lean in close to his ear. He turns his face a fraction so he can see you.

“Why are you here, Jake?” 

He gives you his answer. 

Before you can react, he’s got his hands on you. Too close. His warmth spills over you in an instant, like opening a burning oven. He vice grips your shoulders and pushes, slamming you down hard against the floor. Thank god for your semi-soft bamboo mats or that would have knocked you fucking cold. You make an embarrassing noise as the air escapes your lungs and your vision swims. He’s got your wrists pinned to the floor on either side of your head in no time flat, his legs hooked over yours to keep them down. 

“Fuck,” you rasp out. “Touche.” 

“That’s the ticket.” He says as you blink up at him, your brows drawn tight and shades crooked on your nose. He bends down into your space and lightly touches his nose to yours as you try to fill your lungs back up and make sense of the world. 

You think for an instant he might kiss you, and your pulse flutters. But he doesn’t. Instead, the fucker bites your shades by the bridge and lifts them right off your damn face, spit tossing them across the floor. You helplessly wheeze as you both watch them bounce to a sad halt some five feet away. You look back up at him and he’s got this shit eating grin on his face, the bastard. “Stars and garters, you’re a pretty thing freed of those blasted specs. Fortunately for me, you can’t work those fancy feet on your ass, now can you Strider?” He beams with all the alluring sweetness of a wolf in a flock, doling out compliments like he’s commentating on a particularly appetizing photo in a menu.

You take stock. Your arms are out of commission, and the weight of him has your legs pinned. Limbs neutralized. Your last claim of creature comfort has just been tossed uncaringly to the wayside. You flex your arms against his hold and he raises one eyebrow. Not a snowflake's chance in hell. That balmy heat he carries is cloying a filthy rhythm in your gut.

You’re in quite the compromising position here. You might be able to free your legs if you want to.

If you really, really want to. 

“That,” you finally find the breath to say, “Would be stupid. Why would I flashstep on my own ass? Really English, who taught you how to fight.” And boy does that ever get him smiling. Your entire body goes live at the sight of it, that toothy smile that says he would gladly like to use his teeth for anything  _ but _ smiling. 

“That’s a smart mouth you’ve got, Dirk. I imagine it gets you into some harrowing situations fairly regularly.” He says, just hovering over you for now. He shifts one leg, the subtle slide of it sending lazy sparks up your thigh and straight to your groin. 

“It gets me out of just as many.”

His focus wanders around your face, and down your neck. He pauses at your scar for half a second, then he’s back up to capture your eyes. 

“Say, but how? Do use that mouth of yours to save you, now. How about a little demonstration, hmm?” He’s practically purring by the end, tilting his head to one side, considering. You focus on keeping your breathing balanced as the four points of contact between you send electric currents squirming through your limbs, bounding around your nerves like a circuit board. He relaxes his weight, letting his shoulders lock and his spine arch down just a fraction. He’s still coiled to spring if you try and escape.

 

“Alright English.” You level your jaw with his, using the weight of his hold to slide yourself upward on the floor with your arms until you're eye to eye. His grip tightens faintly in a shallow warning. 

“How about you lean in and I’ll show you.”

You can almost see his pupils dilate. He raises his eyebrows and licks his lips in a terribly alluring gesture. “Ah, now there’s a right ass of a trick. So you can bowl your noggin into my face again? Afraid not, mate,” he says, shaking his head. “Think of something else.” 

“How about you think of something, if you’re in a rush to take this somewhere.” You’re getting impatient stuck here on the floor. You will yourself not to squirm against him. 

“Oh, I’m in no rush, boyo. In fact, I think this is the best view of you yet, laid out pretty and pinned beneath me.” He slides your hands up above your head as he talks, joining them together at the apex. It only takes one of his wide hands to hold both your slim wrists in place, affording him one free hand. Another advantage over you. Your pulse ticks up another notch, and you swallow. Jake watches your Adam’s apple bob with the motion, and his facial expression shifts. You know that look. The one where someone wants to ask about the scar. Mercifully, he doesn’t, and his expression slides away from curiosity and back into that simmering hunger. You sigh in relief, despite yourself.

Your focus snaps back on his hand as he runs his fingers across your collar bones, then sweeps back to drag his knuckles along the smooth expanse of skin your tank top and coveralls fail to conceal. It’s gentle and slow, sweetly exhilarating in comparison to how rough you know he can be. You close your eyes and focus on the soft scratch of his nails and calluses on sensitive skin.

“Could’ve fooled me, two weeks ago you seemed to really be about your view from the ground,” you chide. Maybe you can get out of this. Or at least change positions. 

He hums, hardly concerned with your words, and drags his fingers down the center of your coveralls, watching his hand as it traces the zippers teeth all the way to your navel. Your breath hitches when he presses his open palm to your stomach, fingers curling around your waist.

“Hmm.” He hums again, walking his fingers slowly back up to your collar, where he turns his wrist and fans them out to slide under your shirt. His palm is pressed against your chest, flush above the pounding rhythm underneath your sternum. Your hands curl into loose fists. “Well, if I’m to be completely copacetic, I did rather enjoy getting my tookus handed to me in my own gym.” He laughs, scratching blunt nails across your skin, tracing his path back up to your face. He stops there, his fingers sitting warm against your neck. He runs his thumb across your bottom lip, pausing to idly play with the tiny ball on your lip ring. “But I prefer having my hands on the reins, so to speak.” He leans in a little, focusing his attention on your mouth.

“Careful, I might bite if you get too close.” It comes out as a low warning, a whisper. His grin never falters, if anything he only looks more engaged.

“Oh?”

He pushes his thumb between your lips, and you open up as he presses the rough pad of it flat against the wet bed of your tongue. Your back rises off the floor and your arms twitch against his hold. Heat rolls down your spine and bends up and all around you like dry wood on a bonfire. “Bite me then,” he invites, voice low, his lips only inches away. “I’m in all expectation to see what you’re capable of dishing out, Strider.” You close your teeth around the finger and swallow around him with a roll of your tongue. He makes a pleased little sound, tracing his free digits across your jaw.

Having something to do with your mouth besides talk is a godsend. You taste the salt of his skin, warm and so real. You suck, biting down just tightly enough to feel bone. You know it has to hurt.

You open your jaw, wet teeth making a soft pop off his skin, and roll your tongue all the way around the circumference of his thumb, soothing the ring of small red marks. He watches your mouth work like it’s the only thing that’s keeping him alive. His breathing stutters, and the hand around your wrists tightens painfully, probably bruising where the sharp bones press into one another. Nice.

He drags his thumb out of your mouth, fingers tight on your jaw. It leaves a wet trail along your lips and the corner of your mouth. “Boy howdy, you’re something else,” he says, a whimsy sort of roughness to his voice. You’re not sure he even meant to say it out loud. Jake takes a wrist in each hand again, watching your arms move with his. He uses his grip on your wrists to draw your arms up above you against the floor, content with feeling your muscles and joints move where he directs them.

His breaths are becoming shallow, inches away from your face and enraptured in the languid movements. He smells like cypress and pine and it floods your senses like a forest on fire, crackling flames and lush greenery all at once. He bends to trace his lips over the shell of your ear, raising goosebumps across your arms and down your neck. His tongue runs over the same curved path and you draw in a shallow breath, toes curling.

You  _ need to move _ , so you try to shift your legs, but he’s got them trapped still. He notices and narrows his eyes, another silent warning to behave. He does oblige you however, shifting to force his knees between your legs and hell yeah you’re all about this. You spread for him immediately, inner thighs pressed tight around the outside of his as he hovers above. You flex the muscles of your lower back, rolling your hips a fraction and squeezing around him in an attempt to get some of that tacky arousal to spread through your body and away from where it’s pooling like warm molasses in your groin. It’s not enough. He’s right there between your legs and you’re fucking aching to get  _ moving _ .

With his arms stretched out above you and his hips between your legs, you’re feeling a little boxed in. It’s thrilling, but his face is also  _ right there _ , still not kissing you. Maybe he needs a little push. "As nice as this is, I was expecting something a little closer to two weeks ago. Thought you came here to show me up.” He watches your mouth make words, his lips slightly parted. One eyebrow curves up.

“Is that a challenge, Strider? Or permission to hold a demonstration, mayhaps?” He lowers himself closer again, moving your arms in a smooth arch out to either side of you. He likes this. The ease of him directing your limbs as he pleases. His breath ghosts across your mouth. You watch his lips this time around. It takes all of your willpower not to attack his mouth.

“Try me.” Your voice is low and sticky in your throat. You bend your knee until it bumps against his ass, pushing his mouth centimeters closer. Jake makes a little ‘hmph’ noise and slides his hands slowly up your arms, rucking the sleeves to keep his palms against your skin. 

“Alright Dirk, as you wish.” The moment his palms curl around your biceps, he hauls you up off the floor, moving to keep his folded thighs between your legs, settling you down on his lap. You’re face to face again and a little dizzy for a multitude of reasons.

He’s got your arms clasped behind your back in the deep arch above your ass, one of his arms locked tight around them. The other has a five fingered hold high up on your left thigh, your legs bent so they frame his hips. He shifts to get more comfortable, and it bounces you against him, your torsos flush from crotch to sternum. If you weren’t hard before, you sure as fuck are now.

The comfortable pull of your legs around his waist, your ass pressed into his thighs, and the hand gripping your waist send heat slithering through your muscles. He still won’t give you your arms, but the way he has you trapped and held against him is payment enough for your restraints. 

His free hand wanders from your thigh up your side, warmth blooming in a steady path under his dragging touch. “Not as comfortable, but I guess this’ll do.” You tell him. He laughs against your throat and you wonder when the fuck he leaned in so close. You swallow again on reflex and he mouths at your Adam’s apple, letting the natural bob of it glide against his teeth. Your breath comes out ragged. “I won't push you too hard for now, pet, wouldn’t want to do something regrettable on our first rendezvous. I only just saved you.” 

His free hand roams hot and lazy up around your neck and across your nape, lips busily stamping warm, closed mouth kisses along your jugular. He said first. Does he plan on this being a regular thing? Your stomach knots up in that way you hate whenever it’s faced with something remotely embarrassing or affectionate.

He rolls his knuckles against your scalp, forming a tight grip on your hair. It’s just enough to tinge on painful, making your thoughts scatter and your cock jump to attention. Your fingers wrap around your arms, desperate for whatever they can hold onto. You vaguely wonder how he’s fairing as you ready yourself for what’s to come. Time to kick the hornet's nest.

“Don’t get cocky, I could have handled that myself, mister hero. Besides, you’re just threatening a good time, here.” You feel him smile wide against your neck. Bingo.

Your nerves spike violently as his grip tightens and he suddenly sinks his teeth into the soft skin where your neck meets your shoulder. You make a truly embarrassing sound when you gasp,  hips jerking forward with the force of it, grinding into him. The sudden stimulation has heat rushing to your dick, and your legs tighten around his hips to draw him closer.

He drags his tongue over the stinging mark and another tight breath hisses through your teeth. Your opposite shoulder jumps against his hold as you keen to one side, fighting to be further away and closer all at once. Your mouth falls open as he sucks harder, pulling you tight against the wall of his chest like a fucking vampire. Oxygen is starting to become a lot more important. 

He’s not soothing the hickey by any means as he laives at the bruise with his tongue, slowing to kiss up the length of your jugular. It’s perfect and  _ mean _ and your toes curl so hard you feel them pop. You struggle against his grip, trying to curve against his body. The aggressive attention to your shoulder has your entire body starving for stimulation, wrapped around him with nowhere to go. Your pulse hammers a brutish rhythm against his hold on your arms. As you try to coax him into  _ something more _ without words, his grip tightens in your hair, pulling further to bare more of your throat as he dips in and sucks another angry mark right below your jaw, slower, but equally as fierce. You curse and try to force your body closer, still. He brings your head forward so his lips barely touch yours, his breath ghosting over them like a warm breeze.

“Not a threat then, chap, but an intention,” he says, his voice warm and viciously smooth against your mind. And just like that, he claims you with a searing kiss. 

 


	4. Fist Full of Sugarcane

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jake English finds himself in a particularly pleasant situation with the help of some new friends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ooh boy welcome to another installment of 'when do they fuc?' also THANKS SUZ AGAIN

Your name is Jake English and boy friggin howdy have you got it bad. Well, that is to say, you’ve had it bad for quite some time now, if you’re being perfectly honest. You’ve got a fire in your belly and a lad on your mind.

It all kicked up about three weeks prior to your scrum with one Dirk Strider, though at the time he was simply a fantasy— an obscure celebrity apparition. He was this dashing phantom that haunted your memory day after day, interest peaked from just one single glimpse of him on the tube. Something in the way the fellow moved caught your gander. Hadn’t really given it much thought beyond a softly spoken extraordinary at the time. You put your thoughts of him aside and went back to the old grindstone, tv off and gloves on.

But. His visage plucked at your mind with anxious fingers. By sweet Galahad’s garters you just couldn’t stop conjuring him up in your brain! Something about him… really struck you. So, you did what any logical bloke of this day and age would do and googled the man, what with him being a celebrity and all.

The results were few and less than charming. If anything, a lot of what you dug up was pretty gosh darned depressing. Dirk had, apparently, been through quite the bumpy childhood, albeit most of his life before 16 was a complete blank. The information picks up right after the esteemed, best selling author Rosalind Lalonde adopted the two Striders in lieu of their incarcerated father, whose entire existence in their lives was a hastily blotted out spot on the timeline.

Curious.

There’s a snapshot of them standing with Rosalind shortly after the media enthralling court case, her hands on either of their shoulders, poised in front of a great courthouse. They’re dreadfully malnourished and very obviously uncomfortable with their photos being taken, standing stiff as two skinny boards. A heavy set of white cotton bandages wrap around Dirk’s slender neck.

Concerning. 

Dirk was, or is, if the tabloids aren't simply yanking your crank, a true blue prodigal son. A genius of his lifetime. Once he turned 18, stories of his accomplishments flooded the spotlight. He was secretive and impersonal, a shut in during daylight hours, building strange machines and entire electronic minds like some sort of modern Frankenstein. Artificial Intelligence, you read. Machines you vaguely knew, but this? The man was made to tear the boundaries of creation. Now, at 24 years, he’s got his own brand and a fat golden star next to his name. He even gives lectures at a few colleges in the area by day. Emphasis on by day.

But by night? Strider seemed to transform into a paragon of musical delights, worshiped by the underground club scene. You don’t really care for any of that hellish, booming, substance based hullabaloo. Too noisy and volatile. You’ve got better things to do, to see, than bump and grind in a room designed to make you lose both your inhibition and hearing in one shot. 

But Dirk, yes, Dirk Strider was well known in these occultic circles as a DJ with a golden ear and a thirst for the transmundane. Listings of where he had performed were brimming with obscure, exciting gossip, but strangely enough there wasn’t a single crumb of a hint to where he’d pop up next. Many of the articles you dredged up from popular magazines of the day spoke of his promiscuity, while others focused on slandering his personality. Some managed both. One in particular had gone into grave detail about dark, perverse rituals during his sets. His shows were more than just a little diddy played in real time, they were an entire spectacle to be seen and experienced. The word ‘satanic’’ crept up in multitude, paired with a million variations of words like orgy and ecstasy that made you blush down to your chest. Some articles sung his satanic praises, while others pegged him as a fiendish rapscallion bent on causing the corruption of today's youth. It was all way over your breach of understanding. Regardless, you shrugged it off as just another crop of tart jiggery-pokery all the tabloids dish out on an hourly basis. Can’t trust them, not a lick. Your paltry google detective work left you a little downtrodden, to say the least.

And so the mystery dragged on for another week, gnawing at you. Blasted Strider.

Then, like Lady Luck herself had heard your plea, she handed him to you on a silver platter. 

Or, rather, he showed up at one of the downtown gyms where you instruct advanced boxing courses through the week. He wore a pair of fitted pants, short sleeve turtleneck, and a pair of smart boots, all impossibly black. You admired the theatrics of him, like a movie star in disguise, which you supposed he truly deeply was, in a sense. All that dark cloth hugged his frame from toe to chin in a scrumptious display of lithe muscle. 

He didn’t look much taller than you from your hidden vantage point across the room, but his presence was massive, demanding attention. The overall air of mystique rolled off of him like a tempting curse. Unfortunately, the illusion broke on his damn bothersome shades that sat loud and obtrusive on his otherwise handsome face. You wondered if he slept in the unsightly, jagged things! Any other day you would fancy the sharp accessories, but you had some gazing to do, and they were smack in your line of sight. 

Repugnant shades notwithstanding, seeing him in the flesh struck an instinctual chord somewhere in your brain, hiding behind the machines, staring slack jawed at his elegant profile. It wasn’t just that he was beautiful–because by-gum wasn’t he–it was the way he moved that had you mesmerized. Like a predator, smooth and reserved, ready to make that leap from defensive to offensive at any hint of trouble. Watching him, you decided that you’d very much like to be that trouble. 

A challenge. An adventure. 

You eyed him as you pretended to be occupied out on the floor, hiding like a doofus and watching as he was approached by two younger gentleman you had not previously been acquainted with, what with them attending the beginners courses. It was obvious upon seeing the three of them together that one of them was the younger Strider, Dave, though the profoundly angry troll was another mystery to be solved.

And so you set out to solve it. 

Karkat was as passionate and caring as he was out rightly cantankerous. He seemed to exist at a constant, rage fueled emotional simmer, just waiting for a reason to boil over. You liked him, once you got adjusted to his vocal cacophony, and you found yourself discussing film with him frequently. 

Dave was. Well, Dave was worryingly quiet at first, save for odd comments that revealed him to be quick witted and staggeringly silly. But gracious, when he did talk, the boy didn’t stop for the life of him, making it nigh impossible to get a word in edgewise. He was a natural in combat, but seemed to really take no joy in the act. Quite the opposite of enjoyment really, the poor lad downright loathed participating. It was clear he was only there for Karkat supervision duty, and that was something Dave truly enjoyed. He and Karkat seemed to be in the deepest thatch of romance you had ever been privy to. It was fun and endearing to see them together. 

It also made you positively green with envy.

In passing, you mentioned Dirk. Which, according to Dave, you actually did pretty damn frequently, English, get a grip. With Karkat’s biblical levels of romantic know-how coupled with Dave’s quiet curiosity, they pried a confession out of you. When you finished laying your feelings about Dirk bare for them, Dave grinned a grin so conniving that you had to look to Karkat for reassurance, only to find him shaking his head, the bridge of his nose pinched between two fingers. You were feeling a tad ill at ease, to say the least. 

And so, the trap was conceived. Karkat did all the planning, digging through one trope after the next until he came up with a passable movie moment. You really did appreciate his taste. Once your cohorts settled on a plan of action, it was on Dave to engineer the right circumstances. You hadn’t expected them to rally behind you like they did, but Dave seemed to think it was about time Dirk made a massive switcharoo in his love life. Dave did have reservations about meddling, few as they were, but the outcome seemed to outweigh the means for him. Dave was sure he’d like you. You were fairly certain that was not going to be in any way the case. What would someone accused of palling around with demonic entities and holds magnificent, nefarious musical demonstrations see in a boring square like you? What did you have to offer against his exciting, vicious lifestyle? But.. you had come this far, may as well give it the old college try?

You were not disappointed and neither was he, if you do say so yourself. Your first fight with Dirk was a chaotic assault on your self control. Thinking about it now, in your current position, could squander your chances for a win. It’s Strider: One, and Jake: A Big Fat Zero. 

Best to concentrate on the here and now, right chum? 

Because right now, you’ve got two gorgeous, long legs tight around your hips and a handful of golden hair. He’s panting softly and his lips are swollen red and spit slick. He tastes like sweet marmalade, smells like candied oranges and grease and sweat and it’s maddening. He feels like a dream pressed tight against you. He grinds down, you rise up to meet him. Jumpin' jehosephat are things moving fast. You’re caught in his spell in no time at all.

“Friggin hell, Dirk, what world did you fall from?” you say, not really expecting an answer, but if he’s anything like Dave, and you're positive he is, he’ll be compelled to give you one. 

“Nowhere good,” he pants out in one breath, eyes lidded and focused on your face, his chin turned away from you. Eyes like a raptor, a bird of prey, golden orange and furious. You’ve got his arms locked behind his back, so if you want to use both your hands, and you do, you’ll have to spring him loose. Maybe in a bit.

You’ve made a mess out of his left shoulder and it’s a motivating sight. The bruise will be the perfect mold of your teeth, angry and purple. But that’s not what you’re after. No, thank you. There’s an aged scar around his slender neck that’s got as much a right to be there as a pox on the Pope’s own house. It’s jagged in places, probably closed poorly, and a paler shade than his smooth skin. It tears across his freckles like a satin lightning bolt, silencing the caramel dots under the weight of its existence. The black crown on the back of Dirk’s neck traces it midway around either side, making it seem like just another of his collected baubles. It damnably is not. 

But it does make his back arch and his thighs vice around you when you run your tongue over the length of it, from one corner of his jaw to the other. He gasps, loud and sharp.

“Fuck,” he spits. “Don’t.. don’t do that.” He doesn’t sound terribly sure, so you do it again, pulling his head back by your grip in his hair. He makes a truly beautiful sound, maybe a word, maybe a whine, and presses down against you as much as he can with only his weight and his grounded stems for purchase.

“There, that’s a pretty sound.” You kiss his pulse, his jaw, down the long bend of his throat. Your breaths are getting shorter while another, more pressing part of you is rising to the occasion. You let go if his hair and wrap a hand around his thigh just below the the hip, massaging the inner muscle with your thumb. You lean back, look down between the two of you and sure enough, you’re both sporting matching tents. “Well, hello there fella,” you breath out in a smile.

“Oh my god,” Dirk groans in the least pleasurable way imaginable. “Please don’t.” He pleads. What’s his problem? Maybe he doesn’t think you’re as excited as he is and would rather you not gander at his Maypole. When you look up at his flushed face, he’s fighting a smile and losing.

“Don’t worry, my pecker is just as titillated to see yours as yours is mine,” you say, and he groans again. Before he can slice at your verbal repertoire with more sharp retorts, you tighten the arm around his middle and employ it alongside the hand at his hip and pull, lifting your hips and holding him tight, using your thighs and knees to press yourself up against him. The resulting pressure of his rigid dick sliding against your own hard on is blissful even through layers of clothing. 

He chokes on a curse and canters his hips to prolong contact, his whole body rolling against yours. Eyes locked on his face, you watch his brow crease and his red lips fall open. He’s looking down between you, concentrating maybe, back arched under your arm, breathing heavy as he chases your hips. His eyelashes are long and fan out gracefully over his cheeks, coated in those beautiful freckles. You wonder vaguely if his whole body is dusted in tiny stars. The dark shade of his eyebrows, lashes, and lip ring contrast nicely with the honey hue of him. One of his front teeth is just slightly chipped. Your roll your hips again, and watch his face twist beautifully, groaning alongside him.

He glances up and catches your stare, his eyes wide and surprised like you’ve physically struck him. OH. He’s only just realizing that you've been watching his face as you grind him down against your cock, and his mind bends under the weight of it. His furrowed brows rise in the middle and for one destructively hot second he’s laid wide open and vulnerable, lips parted and flushed down to his chest. Something in you snaps, like a predator finding weakness and you latch onto the sensation. You pull him closer as a sharp pulse of lust runs hot and wild through your center and straight down to your cock. You really would like him to keep making that face. Void of his damn glasses, his eyes give away the game. Where in blazes did this creature come from?

You can’t help the vicious smile that peels across your face as he gives you a stern look, schooling his features as much as he can manage, but he knows you saw. He knows you know. You kiss him hard and hungry, reveling in the way he shivers as you devour his sounds.

Yes, you’re right for a win now aren’t you? 

Breaking the kiss, you press your free hand flat against his chest, your fingers resting on bare skin, and push while you hold tight to his waist tight. His back arches over your arm and he bends willingly, letting his head fall back and boy howdy if that isn’t a gorgeous view. “Not putting up much of a fight now, hmm?” You tease.

“Don’t get too full of yourself, English,” he says, low and strained from his stretched throat. You lean back and let his weight balance against your thighs.

“I was rather hoping it would be you that was full of me,” you shoot back with a crooked grin and some quality eyebrow action. He opens his mouth, straining his neck to look you in the eye, flushed rose pink, and closes it again. You wink, and he huffs, letting his neck relax and fall back, shaking his head.

He doesn’t want you to see his little smile, but you certainly do. Your heartbeat stutters, then slams back into a full gallop. Time to really get this pot boiling.

Taking hold of the zipper of his coveralls, just under his chest, you pull it down, separating the teeth slowly with the satisfying little purr of plastic sliding apart. The zipper runs the length of his torso and stops just above the bump of his erection. You let your knuckles graze the tip of it when you get to the bottom. His entire body jerks at the contact and he grunts, lifting his head back up to look at you. 

“You know this would go a lot smoother, and preferably faster, if you would permit me my arms, bro,” he says, and yes he’s spot on, of course, but there’s no real urgency behind his words. He just making sounds. The strain is going to make him sore if you hold him like this much longer, however. Sacrifices made, you guess.

“Well then it’s a darned good thing I’m not looking to speed this show along, isn’t it Strider?” 

He makes a small tch sound with his tongue against his teeth. 

“Don’t act like you aren’t enjoying my apt attention.” You drum your fingers across his belly and kiss the skin above his shirt collar.

“What gave me away? Was it my witty banter or throbbing erection?” It’s amazing really, the things that come out of his mouth while he tries to hold a straight face, perched and panting on your lap. You laugh, because how could you not, and he caves just a little at the sound. You take the opportunity to hit him again while his guard is down, sliding your hand into his open coveralls, under the black tank, and wrapping it around the curve of his waist. Your arm presses down against his erection and his muscles go taught under your hand, solid and dreadfully warm. You dig in with your fingertips and bring his body back up against yours in one hard pull, slotting him against you.

“Fuck, English,” he bites out as your hips glide together again, his breath gusting over your open mouth. He’s white hot against you, and you watch your hand ruck his shirt up, up, up.

The skin of his torso is silk smooth save for telltale bumps of long healed scars. There are, unfortunately, fewer freckles on his flat stomach, but there is a happy little trail of butter gold hair that leads down from his navel to the split V of the coveralls that’s begging to be explored. The black waistband of his boxer briefs peaks over the dip, inviting. If you want his shirt off, you concede, you’ll need to free his arms. 

But first, you know? You’d like to kiss him just a tad more while you’ve got him captured. To feel the cool steel of his lip ring, trace the slight imperfection of that chipped tooth with your tongue. 

You're distressed to find that without your hand in his hair to hold him close, his lips are just narily too far away for kissing comfortably. It’s a perfect angle to kiss along the sharp angles of his collar and neck, but that’s just not what you're after right this second. After a moment of your lips resting on his chin, eyes wide and pleading, he gets it, rolling his own toward the stars hard enough to launch them into orbit. His head drops and he hovers, bringing his lips down just close enough to feel the heat of them on yours. It’s frightfully ticklish. When you press up to kiss him, he pulls back with a shitty little smirk.

You twist your mouth to one side and thrust up against him again, pulling him close. He gasps and you dive into his open mouth hard enough to clink your teeth together. You feel the moment he pushes back, the muscles under your hands flex when his whole body tightens around you like a cage. He twists his head to the side, slotting your mouths together, and you’re beaten again. The small ring slides against your lip tight enough to feel the metal heating through the friction of it all. 

As you kiss–if you can even name it anything but a battle at this point–you’ve found a pleasant rhythm of rocking him against you. It’s tricky to keep up, what with the lack of available appendages and a clever tongue in your mouth, but it’s heaven's fucking harmony to have him grinding against your cock.

He backs off and you both take deep, open mouthed breaths, your temple resting against his cheek. Your chests heave in time like great steaming billows, rocking you together. You’re both starting to sweat with the effort, and that little detail sends more blood pulsing a hot, wild streak down your spine to your cock. Much more and it’s going to get painful.

“Jake,” he pants into your hair right above your ear, “Do me a solid, here.” He leans back to look you in the eye, pausing to lick his lips and goosefeathers isn’t that distracting.“Give me my fucking arms.” He punctuates his order with a roll of his hips and you groan appreciatively.

“Great Gipper, Strider, fine,” you growl out, “But don’t you go and do something dastardly.”

“No promises,” he says, dripping with venom and sugary sweet.

You let go of his arms and brace him, a hand on either side of his waist. His eyes rise up like a wildfire on the wind and burn into you. It’s quite possible you’ve just made a veritable whoopsie.

His arms unfold like great wings and he’s on you immediately, curling his fingers into the front of your shirt and gripping you tight between his thighs. It takes all the strength of your core to not fall back under the force of him. He leans in before you can even draw a gasp and kisses you again, harder than most adult men punch. Your hands fight to find purchase, one at his hip and one spread wide on his back as he slams against you like a hungry force of nature. You think he may have busted your lip with his teeth, or bit you, because there’s tangy copper slick between your tangled tongues and it’s fucking turmoil to be on the outside of him.

This time around he’s not just passionate, he’s right down unforgiving. He kisses like he wants to punish you for everything that led up to this. Or reward, possibly. He bites and sucks, runs his tongue over your teeth and fucks deep into your mouth with it. You can feel your brow scrunch up tight with effort, your hands holding on for dear life. If he tastes the blood on your lip, he’s not shying from it. Quite the opposite, in fact, as he devours whatever he can get. 

His kiss drips down the back of your throat like a hot tonic, viscous and heady. You see it behind closed eyes, a gooey dripping curse that sinks deep down to your belly and permeates every cell, black as pitch and sweet as licorice. 

He breaks away, mouth wide open, and a thin, obscene trail of spit dips between your open mouths. His eyes are half lidded and bright as the sun. You both take a few good, long breaths because gadzooks do you need oxygen to live.

Faster than you thought possible–well for mere mortals, but you suppose not for The Dirk Strider– he violently turns his whole body, your shirt still held tight in his fists, and slams you down on the mat. Quick as a flash, you’re flat on your back with his weight pinning you to the floor. Again. You’re just too many kinds of breathless to hold a coherent thought, and your mind stumbles over unaired curses. This time he doesn’t pin your hands, but instead makes to straddle your hips, align your cocks perfectly, and support himself with his hands on either side your head against the mat floor. 

He’s breathtakingly fucking glorious like this and your thankfully free hands snap up to his waist like magnets. You’re getting very tired of these dreadfully practical clothes separating you from him. The simmering tar he dropped in your belly burns up your spine as you slide both hands under his shirt, craving skin on skin.

“Now isn’t this terrible fun,” you say, running your hands up his stomach and chest, watching his body curve into your touch. “I wagered you would be up for a scrum, but this?”

“You failed to specify one or the other, so here we are. Improv–ahhh–“ He stutters into a long, plush moan when you reach down and slide a hand across his belly, fingertips slipping under the elastic of his briefs and tracing the head of his dick. The muscles clench and tremble against your hand, his pre coating your fingertips as you tease a small circle around the tip of him. 

“Mm, improvisation, I see, so what’s to come next?” You roll your fingers around the wet tip in another lazy circle, his spine dipping lower in response, hips and cock pressing into your hand. His chin drops towards his chest, and he bites into his bottom lip to stifle a moan. Your other hand wanders up his side.

“Preferably both of us.” He says, incredulous, then leans back to sit just behind your erection, pinning it in front of his own. You laugh, loud and unhindered, hooking your fingers in his waistband. Pulling on the elastic band gives you a sneak peak of the peachy flesh at the head of his cock, glistening with the pre you painted around him. He shrugs off the top portion of his coveralls so his arms and shoulders are bare, then bats your hand away to lower himself back into your space. You give him your best pout and replace your hands on his hips.

He lays down on top of you, bracing himself with his elbows on either side of your head, boxing you in. The tar swirls in your belly, a sumptuous, arousing whisper to keep going. You run your hands over his hips and up along his sleek sides, then back down. His lips hover just a hair's breadth away from yours, his hair a golden halo where it falls around his head, shaken loose by all the day's hullabaloo. You grin at him, wide and toothy, feeling your eyes crinkle. He turns his head and his brows furrow just a fraction, breathing heavily through his nose. “You’re beautiful, Dirk.” You thought he couldn’t blush any heavier, but boy were you mistaken.

You feel his chest expand against yours as he fills his lungs up in a rush, the tips of his ears practically glowing pink. You scratch your nails across the exposed skin of his lower back and up his spine. He’s warm and captivating and mind numbingly sexy and best of all he’s all yours.

“Shut up, Jake,” he eloquently throws back at you, followed by a velvety moan as you run one hand under his shirt, from his hip all the way up past his ribs, palming the elegant peaks of his shoulder blades. The other sneaks south again, wrapping around his dick through too many layers of clothing. He drops his head lower at your ministrations, head turned slightly so your mouths don’t quite align. He squirms, lifting his hips to allow your hand more space to wonder.

You chase his lips, catching his sigh with a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth. You release him and run both hands smoothly down his back with enough force to coax him down close again. He obliges you, shifting his thighs to allow your hips to interlock. You guide him down symmetrical to your length and he rolls his hips. You both groan when your cocks grind together, finally getting a little more attention down south. Dirk pulls with his elbows hooked above your shoulders to prologue the sweet drag of your dicks, your hands working to keep your bodies together in a perfect locking fit. You’ll be lucky if you can function without him against you after this, once your body has fully acclimated to the shape of him. 

“Shit,” he breathes, “who gave you the door code?” He’s half out of his mind, trying to force as much useless authority as he can muster into the demand while grinding and panting against you on the floor. You laugh and throw his tch response back at him, grabbing two handfuls of his ass over the coveralls and pressing your cock into his again. 

“Focus, Dirk,” you growl into his ear. You’ll have to work a little harder to clear the poor lad’s mind. He gasps loud and it turns into a breathy moan that rumbles between you. “Fuck, that’s hot,” he says, his breath a wet heat against your cheek. You chuckle, the liquid hex in your gut working up to a burning anticipation. Boy howdy is he fun.

You hold him down and nip at his neck just below his jaw. He makes a needy little sound and you’re sure as the dickens that it’s more from the force of your hands pinning him down than the soft kisses. 

He turns his attention back to your face and his mouth meets yours; he kisses you slow and syrupy, breathing through his nose in deep inhales. It’s messy, the both of you getting worked up without a proper outlet. Rolling waves of wan arousal bounce around your nerves like hell’s own plinko board, picking up heat at every tap and gathering at your dick, trapped hot and ready under Dirk’s rolling hips. 

Your hands wander across the plains of his back and oh, all that bare skin under your hands sparks a thought. You’re reminded that yes sir, you should be wearing less clothes and he should definitely be wearing no clothes. He moans into your open mouth, strumming the tight wire low in your belly. You’re practically vibrating with every delicious grind, that building rhythm, that honey and tar swirled around your spine and reaching for release. You wrap the fingers of one hand around the nape of his neck and pull away for another deep gulp of air. The two of you fight one another for oxygen, breathing fast and shallow. You want him something terrible, every bit of him.You crane your neck to look down between you, sliding your hand back down his belly to his–

He draws back one arm and snaps one of your suspenders HARD against your chest, catching a nipple, and you yelp in a loud, undignified manner. “Just testing,” he reasons, tracing two fingers up and down the elastic band. 

“Testing bloody what?” you ask, because dammit, that smarts.

“How easy these are to take off,” he answers. You blink twice, open your mouth, then close it, mirroring his earlier response back at him. He looks too proud, and an idea pops into your head. That syrupy pitch he kissed into you corkscrews around your mind in agreement.

You grab him again and he has a split second to look simultaneously surprised and pissed off before you lift his body by the hips and get a leg under him, flipping him over your head. You’re up and turning almost before he even lands, your body crouched and ready.

“Alright, mother fucker,” he coughs out in an aborted laugh. You laugh too, because he’s fast as all get out, already lifting up on his hands from a half assed roll, his knees stacked next to him on one side. You’re grinning like a wolf and he’s looking at you like he suspects you’re just that. 

You slide a thumb under either suspender and shrug them off. You think for a moment, then go ahead and shuck them completely, along with your belt, off towards the wall. Dirk watches your hands without missing a single movement, eyes locked. Without standing up, he wriggles out of his coveralls completely, kicking them to the side. 

The tar finally molds itself completely over your nerves, the heat of seeing him like this enough to melt it down, to let it fill your entire body with delicious, liquid heat. A feral hunger ratchets through you as you take in the sight of him, chasing your arousal like a hunted rabbit. A bead of sweat rolls down your neck.

Not briefs, but very dashing black mid thigh compression shorts hug his legs. You swallow hard and watch him move, his erection painstakingly on display without his loose denim cocoon. Your hands twitch to have him while your pulse hammers in your ears.

He moves to match you, keeping both hands on either side of his body for balance, looking very much the picture of an Olympic runner. He’s got one leg bent up, one knee on the ground, and a lightning storm building behind his eyes. He’s crouched to attack, chest and shoulders heaving, and if he was any hotter he’d be exhaling plumes about now. 

“So,” he says, then licks his lips.

“So,” you answer, doing the same, and grinning like a loon.

“Round two, then,” he says. He wants to smile, the corner of his mouth pulling slightly.

“Oh, dear heart, I knew you’d come around.”


	5. Rasputin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> you lose, finally.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well goodness gracious I think it's about time for a climax, don't you?

If you were to make an educated guess based on the steep angles and stretched length of the evening shadows reaching across the floor, you would put the time just around 6:45 p.m. Of course your vantage point is just a little skewed, as you are currently being pinned to the wall by one Jake Fucking English, resident Wild Man. So to be fair, there are a lot of variables for inaccuracy. But really, who gives a horse’s ass about the time right now. 

Certainly not you.

Only moments ago you were rolling and grappling on the floor in tangled, sweaty knots of limbs and ill intentions, barely any breathing room between you. You’ve managed to tear his soft bottom lip again, he keeps making a show of licking the blood off. Though, you’ve probably got more of his blood in your mouth than he does at this point, his tongue rolling with yours between your open lips. His right eyebrow has a pretty little cut that will bloom into a nasty bruise come morning. Your point. 

He’s branded an almost perfect imprint of his hand on your right thigh, and crafted numerous lesser abrasions scattered along your body. Your left shoulder will need some serious TLC where he nearly popped it out of the socket. His point. 

Not to mention that he managed to steal your shirt during the scuffle, so that happened. The number of scattered articles around the room grows with every passing minute. Most of them are yours. Also there’s the issue that you may have unintentionally hexed him, but you’ll worry about that later.

Just like the first time, you’re pulled into the swarm, adrenaline and lust making one hell of a brain melting cocktail. Your heart pounds a merciless rhythm in your throat and ears, pumping the sticky sweet mixture through your veins. Your muscles burn with the electric heat of pushing your limits. Good thing he’s holding you up against the wall.

You’re both going to look like shit tomorrow, a recurring consequence of having the two of you in the same room. Not that you plan on leaving your house for the next few days. Jake, however, will have to show his smug face on whatever day he works. You’ll have to try and leave some very telling marks, you think.

Sucks to suck. 

Speaking of sucking.

Jake has one of your thighs supported in each broad hand, spread wide and pinned to the wall by his hips. The impact of your back slamming into the wall has knocked a small stone bowl to the floor and the breath from your lungs. Another recurring theme with you two. He’s busy sucking another wet bruise into your neck while you try to work his shirt buttons apart around his mouthy ministrations. It’s tricky but you manage, reaching the bottom and rolling the poor, stressed material down his shoulders. He deals with the sleeves on his own, one then the other, keeping a hand and two hot lips on you at all times.

You dig your heels into the backs of his thighs and lay your palms flat against either side of his neck, tilting his jaw up with the balls of your thumbs. He responds accordingly, tilting his head up enough to look down his nose to keep eye contact, wild and hungry. He slides his hands under your shorts and straight back to your ass. Your back arches, pressing your chests together, and you smash a kiss against his lips. The hellish pounding of his heart vibrates your sternum and sends a rolling shiver through your bone structure like a harp string.

Jake thrusts hard against you without breaking the kiss, slamming your back into the wall again, forcing it straight. The sheer lack of concern for your welfare has you in a dumbstruck, erotic state; you're reduced to panting and gasping as he grinds against your dick and paws, hungry and aggressive, at whatever he can get a grip on. Sweat beads on his shoulders and forehead as he tries his hardest to devour you.

His hands tighten fiercely on the next heavy roll, and he growls into your mouth in what might be frustration.

One of Jake's hands drags out of your shorts, scratching down your thigh with blunt nails while he swallows down your resounding moan with his tongue. He wraps his arm around your waist and twirls you away from the wall, straight back down to the goddamn floor. He looks smug and victorious up there between your legs, breathless and bare from the waist up. He’s obscenely flawless, a perfect expanse of warm sandalwood skin and coarse, dark hair on his chest that runs a tapering trail down his center to the hem of his shorts. He also sports the most vexingly cute outie belly button you’re ever laid eyes on.

“Are you fucking kidding me,” you pant, caught somewhere between a growl and a whine. It would’ve been so easy for him to ruin you right there up against the wall, but no. “Make up your damn mind.” 

“Oh,” he laughs, and the heated look in his eyes sends a lucious shiver down your spine. “I have, don’t you dare think otherwise, pet. I’m about to get mine.” He punctuates “mine” with a hand between your legs, palm flush against the base of your dick and fingers curling over your balls. You gasp hard and arch, the combative foreplay building you up to being painfully hard. He licks his lips and stares you down, daring you to disagree. You make to tackle him, bending at the waist to make this difficult if he’s going to keep jerking you around, but he catches on quick and uses his hands on your thighs to flip you over, pinning you to floor on your stomach. 

It’s the exact position you had him in when you claimed the first victory. He played you right into this.

Again.

You’re uncharacteristically stunned for half a second, then you feel heat rise to your face and neck, the red glow no doubtedly spreading like a cloud of ink through water. The weight of him against your ass and thighs is excruciatingly hot, but your over sensitive and very much trapped erection is not happy. 

Just like before, he has one hand by the wrist above your head and the other pinned at your back. You’re beat.

He wins. You lose.

_ Finally _ .

Your heart is going to explode, there’s just not enough of you to hold in the drumming pulse of it. He draws the arm at your back up and joins it with it’s mate above your head. You’re panting into the floor, face turned sideways to allow your mouth to fall wide. He lifts himself up to hover over you and runs his free hand down your back, sliding his fingers into your suffocatingly tight compression shorts. His middle finger reaches far enough to brush your entrance and you jolt, choking on a whimper. Your entire body tenses under him, drowning in anticipation. 

He hums appreciatively. “Yes, jiminy fucking Christmas, yes. You’re positively fractured, aren’t you, love?” He lets your wrists go, but you keep them there, unable to function past what he directs. He puts his hands on your hips and you feel him shift to straddle your thighs. You’re missing his hands under your shorts already.

He runs a hand up your back as far as he can reach and you bend your spine to follow his touch. His breath crawls hot and wet across your skin, just above the waist of your shorts, dipping in close to press an open mouthed kiss to the base of your spine. You shudder. It’s too soft, too fucking sweet, and not nearly enough. You growl low in your chest, and he immediately tightens his grip on your waist. “Now now, honeycomb,” he purrs, his breath like warm steam on the sensitive skin above your ass. 

His mouth travels the length of your spine, pressing melting kisses across your skin as he goes. You arch into each one until he has climbed up your body, his chest against your back. Sweat drags between you. 

He kisses the knot at the top of your spine and you gasp.

He puts his teeth around the nape of your neck and you fucking whine.

You can feel his cock, rock hard and insistent against your ass; his body is covering your entire back like a scalding, heavy blanket.

Leaning over to run the velvet softness of his lips over the shell of your ear, he purrs, voice low and dark chocolate smooth. “Get on your knees for me, won’t you Dirk?” he says, lifting your hips up against the front of his shorts with one hand on your stomach, his dick pinned between your ass and his hips. You moan out what could possibly be the word “fuck” but you’re honestly not sure, because your sex addled brain is screaming  _ YES PLEASE _ from the fucking rafters. 

Jake puts one broad hand around the base of your neck to keep your shoulders on the ground. Delicious little pinpricks of pain spark under his grip where he bit down earlier. You drop your forehead on one bent arm. “Finally, fuck  _ yes _ ,” spills out of your mouth between shallow breaths. He chuckles and it vibrates through you. Your heartbeat trips over itself like an idiot.

When he straightens up again, his hands leave you and you’re fucking bereft. You feel him moving, his thighs pressed wetly against yours as he shifts around behind your ass. You look over your shoulder at him, his pants split in front, beautiful hard cock exposed, and he’s–

"Did you just pull a condom out of your pocket?” If you sound incredulous it's because you really fucking are.

Jake’s head snaps up from opening the thing and he meets your eyes. He looks simultaneously embarrassed and very proud of himself, panting and poised to fuck you. “I– yes,” is all he says, and if you watch him put that fucking condom on you’re going to actually die, so you put your head back down on your arms and groan. You’d be lying if you said his cockiness at getting inside you didn’t make your dick jump in approval.

His hands return, starting mid thigh and running up to curve around your ass. You can feel the rough calluses on his fingers and knuckles as they drag against the slick material of your shorts. He slaps your right cheek HARD, and you yelp out a curse. “Just testing,” he mimics, massaging the spot with his palm and fingers before continuing on his path to your waistline.  _ Wiseass _ . He pulls your shorts off without much more fanfare and you're thankful for it, aching to get moving before your body melts into the floor. 

His hands find purchase on your ass once more, spreading you open with his thumbs. A hoarse gasp tears through you when you feel his breath ghost over the sensitive ring of muscle. “Shit, Jake,” you gasp through a full body shiver as that slick muscle traces around your rim. Jake groans, low and focused as it rumbles against you where he makes contact with his tongue and lips. For a moment, his mouth diverts to kiss your left cheek, giving him room to insert one of his wide fingers, spit slick and blood hot inside you. He moves slowly, steadily pumping his hand in and out and licking into you in short intervals. He adds another finger and the stretch of it burns in that pleasant way it always does. He scissors his fingers and kisses your lower back as you tremble and struggle to stay afloat. Minutes pass, then it’s three fingers working in tandem to stretch you open while Jake’s lips are busy peppering feathery kisses along your spine.

You’re ready,  _ so fucking ready _ , so you press back onto his hand and plead, “Jake, come on.” He smiles against your spine and presses into you one last time, just one finger going deep enough to hit your prostate, palm flat against your ass as shocking pleasure locks up your entire body. Your breath hitches hard and you yell out a sharp gasp. His hands retreat to your thighs and he pulls them further apart. You roll your hands into fists.

You don’t expect him to spit into his hand and lube himself up; it’s disgusting and obscene and fucking hot and you don’t even care you just  _ want him to start. _

He lines himself up, the head of him presses against the wet mark of your entrance and he pushes the tip inside without a warning. Your jaw falls open and your chest dips closer to the floor, hips curving up to allow him better access. The pressure is exquisite, the muscles of your lower back and thighs pulled tight. Your insides melt into hot syrup as he buries himself deeper inside through slow controlled movements. His breath hisses out between his teeth in a low growling moan, drawn out and satisfying. You’re stretching around him, his entire body curling around yours and you're caught. Captured. Forced to the floor by the weight of him and it’s so fucking hot. 

Where the fuck has he been this entire time?

Jake’s hips meet your ass and he sighs against the back of your neck, sending shivers rolling across your skin. “Stars and garters, you’re perfect Dirk, look at you– oh just  _ look at you _ ,” he mumbles and you hate that he’s being kind. It’s sweet and toxic in your mind, bright enough to shy away from.

You roll your hips and he moans, pressing impossibly deeper as you clench around him. He takes a death, steadying breathe as he pulls partially out, then presses back in slowly, experimentally. After a few slow thrusts, he picks up the pace. In no time at all you’re both panting and gasping, one of Jake’s hands on the mat next to your shoulder and the other bruising the soft flesh of your hip.

One of your arms is outstretched above you, the other tucked under your forehead to brace you against the force of him, teeth ground hard between savage, panting breaths. Your fingers scratch and claw at the mat, fighting for purchase. He’s bent in half over you and you soak in his heat as the pressure builds. His rhythm is ruthless and powerful as he snaps his hips flat against your ass. He leans in and sinks his teeth into your nape again. Your back arches into an impossible curve as you fuck like cats on the floor of your practice room, each thrust pushing you both closer to the edge. 

You’re loud, caught between wet moans and curses that punctuate every crash of his hips against yours, forcing the air out of your lungs. Each obscene sound of skin on skin cuts through the air like a blade. The pressure collects and pools, sticky hot and suffocating. Every sound he makes blurs the world around you more and more, pulling you deeper down into the depths of him. 

You bite down on your arm to stifle your voice, but Jake doesn’t care for that, not at all. He slows, pulling almost completely out in an excruciatingly slow drag but keeping the head of his cock anchored inside you. He grabs your hair and sharply pulls your head back while he plants himself back inside, pivoting his hips up to grind directly into your prostate and you scream. “There you are, love, oh–“ he growls from his place behind you, “Let me hear you, _ give me everything _ .” 

He redoubles his pace, letting go of your hair to reach down between your shaking thighs and wrap his hand around your veritably dripping cock. You slam your forehead onto the mat and fight to breath as he does his best to break you in half. He’s biting your neck, your shoulder, kissing and sucking at whatever he can reach and you're splintering beneath him, pieces tumbling away in moans and gasps and whimpers. You’re coming apart for him in no time at all.

His hand is slick with pre as he pumps you in an wicked rhythm, keeping time with the powerful snap of his hips. He’s getting in deeper and deeper and your whole body struggles to hold him. His pace starts to falter and you thank fuck for that because the white hot coil in your gut is about to snap loose. 

You watch his perfect hand near your shoulder curl into a powerful fist, and he rolls his forehead against your back, growling and moaning in time with your yells and cries. “Dirk, Dirk..” he says, making a mantra of your name; his voice is lush and heady, floating into your brain and scrambling your thoughts. You brace yourself with your arms and lean your whole frame back into him as he pounds into you with chaotic, unforgiving thrusts.

 

You’re so close, so so fucking close come on...

You feel it right before he hits climax, his hand on the mat flies up to your hip, the fingers curling viciously into your skin while the one pumping your cock falters. He grinds his forehead into your spine and you can feel him fighting it, putting off his orgasm as he plows into you. He’s holding off until you finish so he can watch you fall apart into a blissed out mess beneath him and shit, you just can’t take it anymore  _ you can’t– _

He bites down HARD, right at the base of your neck, slamming against your prostate in one final thrust, and you shatter. Your whole body lights up, the coiled wire snapping violently inside you. You close your eyes tight and stars spark behind your lids. Jake is relentless, pumping you through it as you moan his name into the floor. He works you into overstimulation, painting the floor and your stomach with pearly streaks as he whispers husky praises into your ear. You hear him growl and he spears deep into you, both hands on your hips, taxing your overused body to chase his own climax. He pulls you to him one last time and stays there, gritting out a ragged, appreciative groan right above your ear as he comes. He kisses your back as he rides it out, dragging his tongue against the salty skin of your shoulders, one shallow thrust after the next.

He pulls out, and you let yourself fall forward onto the floor, loose limbed and blissed out of your fucking mind. You’re sweaty and tired and your blood boils in your veins as you struggle to catch your breath. You need a shower. Jake lays down next to you in pretty much the exact same state. You turn your head to look at him. He's laying flat on his back with a beautiful grin on his face, panting and blinking up at the ceiling. His chest rises and falls and you just watch him exist next to you, covered in sweat and loving every second of it. He turns his head and catches your eyes, giving you a handsomely devilish smile when he notices you watching him. You scrunch of your nose in a moment of bratty weakness and turn your head away. He laughs at you in an unfamiliar, fearless way, the sound dripping out between breaths. It makes your stomach flutter in a not so sexual way. Shit.

He shifts and you look over at him quickly over your arm, a tiny spike of fear setting off alarms that he’s probably leaving now that he’s successfully fucked you. Something you usually do to others. But he isn’t. He rolls over onto his side and kicks his shorts and underwear off the rest of the way without bothering to use his hands. He curses and kicks and you let a small closed mouth smile slip out while he’s distracted. You hadn’t even noticed he still had them on. Huh.

When he’s good and naked he looks down at you, his head resting on his palm, the struggle with his shorts prolonging his panting. He breathes through his nose a few times and sighs from deep down in his lungs, his entire frame moving with the motion. You sigh with him, unconsciously matching your breaths to his as you watch him. He reaches up and brushes the hair out of your eyes, blinking and looking all over your face. 

“That was...” he breathes, “that was bloody amazing,” he says in complete reverence. 

It’s just past sunset, the light coming in from the window behind you is milky blue and tinted pink, washing him is dreamy hues. You breathe into the bend of your arm and just...

Look at him. For a second. His smile is softer than it was earlier, closed mouth and crooked on his charming face. His eyes are sleepy and shine emerald green in the low light. There’s a faint sheen of sweat that’s quickly drying all across his shoulders and arms. He says your name and it pulls you back out of whatever hazy cloud of thoughts you were wondering through. You can feel your body start coming back online, bruises hum and muscles ache.

“Now what?” you ask. If you’re not careful, you could scare him off. Maybe you should.

“Now we just mosey down here on the horizon line for a shake, I imagine.”

“No, I mean..” you start. Maybe you shouldn’t talk about him and you. There isn’t even an actual  _ him and you, _ who are you kidding. You could just be ruining this blissful afterglow moment you have going. But.. This situation feels different,  _ he _ feels different. Or, a part of you wants it to be different, at least. Different is dangerous. Like some shitty rom-com that Karkat would peddle your way.  _ Jake _ is dangerous. You weren’t wasted after a show, he’s not some piece of ass you picked out of a sea of bodies just to get your dick wet. He picked you out and read you like a fucking book. Maybe he’ll stick around. Maybe...

“I mean, what comes after this. We literally met two weeks ago English, we’ve now officially fucked or fought longer than we’ve held an actual conversation.” You shrug the best you can with your arms crossed under your head.

He makes a face like he’s stuck between grimacing and smiling, brows drawn, and taps the pads of his index and pointer fingers against his chin. “Well, I suppose that’s true, though I– uh...” His eyes drop to the floor, his settling complexion turning wine red again, “I confess, I may have been um... pursuing you, in secret, for some time now.” He draws little nonsense symbols on the floor with his fingertip. 

Your brain works, the gears starting to rotate through the sticky sex muck clogging the machine.

“So the fight was a setup?” 

He looks up at you through thick, dark lashes and shrugs his shoulders up towards his ears.

“Yes?”

“I fucking knew it.” You roll over onto your back and flatten both hands on your face as Jake chuckles nervously beside you. 

“You’re a tad dramatic, Dirk.”

Ignoring that. After another moment of contemplation, you turn your face to him again.

“And Dave gave you the door code?”

He huffs and rolls his eyes in such an exaggerated way you worry they may never stop rotating, “Yes Dirk, Dave gave me the blasted door code.”

That little shit.

**Author's Note:**

> [Find me on Tumblr for art things](http://thedoublepp.tumblr.com/)


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